


NEW SENSATION

by twokisses



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Jam sessions, M/M, Songwriting, Tattoos, drummer!simon, guitarist!baz, simon with a big fat crush, sweaty baz, vocalist!/bassist!shepard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26010703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokisses/pseuds/twokisses
Summary: Great Snakes is the band bursting through Watford’s seams and onto the world’s rock music stage. With their music rapidly gaining the attention of thousands and an incredible opportunity having landed at their feet, everything just seems to be on the up and up.Until they lose a critical member of their band, right before what could have been the show of a lifetime.In a pinch, the remaining Snakes need to find someone—and someone truly show-stopping—to replace her, or face the possibility of having to give up on their dream.Help comes from the most unexpected places.OR - The one in which Baz is not the guitarist Simon wanted, but probably the one he needs.**NEXT UPDATE IN THE SECOND WEEK OF NOVEMBER 2020. Thank you for being patient and understanding.**
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020





	NEW SENSATION

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go!! This is my piece for the Carry On Big Bang 2020 - or rather, the first chapter of it!
> 
> My partner for the COBB is the super amazing [half_witch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_witch), who drew the [MOST STUNNING AND INCREDIBLE art](https://carry-on-big-bang.tumblr.com/post/627033103862513664/new-sensation-author-twokisses-artist) for this fic. It repeatedly blows me away. Thank you so much, half_witch for being a wonderful, wonderful partner!!
> 
> Thank you as well to my betas for this chapter: [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover), [unenthusiastic_mermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unenthusiastic_mermaid), and my sister!
> 
> I actually started writing the first version of this fic for the Carry On Countdown 2019, and back then it was supposed to be a medium-length one-shot. But I quickly realised that I wanted to spend more time in this AU and flesh it out more, so here it is many months later, with a first chapter that's as long as the initial entire fic was supposed to be. 😂 I'm having a lot of fun with it so far. I hope you enjoy what you read and that you'll be interested in sticking around for the chapters to come!!
> 
> There are playlists for this fic! Listen to [the general playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/03hkbekgzrpoiWSFaGatMg?si=pgR60_AIRU6i0wDO9EpeRA), as well as the playlists for [Simon](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3GA6qqDnXhSqz5dkUD9P98?si=Zgl7NHFFSyejf0ztUm1v3Q), [Shep](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0bZT9iVyEbZBb6xhjhSpql?si=sdymFSZuReykFeI8BaXOSQ), and [Baz](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1q8qRrtspWC2iDw9IPhUR5?si=prTQA5EAQ2aSCdNKtGTtyQ)! (I would recommend listening to them on shuffle for now, as I haven't sorted out the sequence of songs yet hah) I will be updating these continuously, so give them a follow if you like!
> 
> Title comes from the song 'New Sensation' by INXS.

Simon’s foot is tapping against the floor. The tapping is fast, and agitated—and the drumming of his heel sends judders right up into his stomach. On the knee that isn’t bouncing, his fingers tap a beat precisely in time with the one that is.

It’s a restless tic, and it used to annoy Agatha to no end before she decided to make peace with it. Used to be that she could only ignore him for five minutes, tops, before she’d force his knee down with her hand or wedge her foot under his. And Penny would say that lots of things annoy Agatha for no apparent reason (fair) but Simon thinks that the bouncing and drumming actually has one—it probably makes her more nervous than she wants to be.

Not that she’s _said_ it. But on show nights like these, she sits with her back to the stage and engages more in conversation than she ever does, and Simon strongly suspects it’s because she doesn’t want to acknowledge the size of the crowd, or what it means, until she absolutely has to—until she’s facing all of it with a guitar.

Simon understands the reasoning. He just doesn’t know how to practice it himself.

His attention won’t stay at his own table. Surrounding it—surrounding him—are his friends, loud with well-worn banter and pre-drink enthusiasm. But he isn’t really seeing Dev’s animated gesticulating, Penny rolling her eyes to heaven, or Niall trying to look judgmental through a thick layer of fondness. He barely hears Dev saying _“Have one more, Simon—that’ll do it!”_ Only distantly feels the chilled shot glass of something—probably something foul—that Dev pushes into his hand. And the taste of it hardly registers on his tongue.

Because he’s barely there.

Because really, he’s across the room. He’s onstage.

The Watford-famous stage at Nico’s venue is a platform raised to shoulder-level, painted a matte black. Dim, deep blue house lights wash serenely over three gleaming instruments—an electric bass, electric guitar, and the drop-dead gorgeous drumset Nico spent a small fortune on sprawling out across the back. The steel and wood shines under the lights like an invitation. Like the glowing, whispering treasure one might find in Aladdin’s cave.

The sight of it makes Simon's fingers itch.

He has half a mind (“the stupid half,” Penny would say) to go up onto the stage before it’s time for Great Snakes’ set. He would do it if he thought no one would notice (maybe). But it’d be impossible _any_ day—especially today. There’s been a steady stream of people coming in through the doors since they opened an hour ago; definitely too many eyes to pass by undetected. Half the view now is a shifting sea of people silhouetted against the backdrop of the stage. Personality can only be picked out by voice. Conversations swell and recede over the clinking of glasses, the odd burst of bright laughter, and the steady background layer of Kasabian. (Nico’s favourite.)

Every person here has come to see the three of them. Simon, Agatha—and their missing counterpart, who said five minutes ago that he’d only be away a minute. He’d ventured off toward the bar to ask Nico how long they had left to their set. But then again, everyone loves him anyway. It wouldn’t be impossible that he got detained.

But of course, speak of the devil.

“Alright, folks. Ready?”

Years of living in the UK have softened the Nebraskan accent to a hint, but it’s there—and it’ll come out more once its owner starts singing. Simon spins in his seat and is greeted by a few things at once—bright eyes to match several choice piercings in a lip, eyebrow, ear; a grin reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s; and as much vibrating energy as two normal people can hold. Unmistakably Shep. Bassist and lead singer extraordinaire.

Even with no other incentive, pre-show Shep would set Simon’s nerves alight. (Where Agatha tends toward anxiety before shows, and Simon to impatience, Shepard is all excitement. The hours leading up to their set is just as good as being in the thick of it, in his opinion. And it leaks out of him in everything he does—it’s infectious all on its own.) But he’s also come to the table with the magic words:

“We’re up.”

And Simon stops tapping. Everything in him comes to a standstill but for his rising heartbeat, and a grin breaks free across his lips like an animal previously contained. Shep’s gets wider to match. When they turn to Agatha, she’s already nodding and sliding off her stool.

Dev notices them leaving and insists on fist bumps from each of them. Niall and Penny raise their drinks to them, wishing them luck. Then Simon is on the move—he can’t wait anymore—feeling Shep and Agatha following at his back. When they pass the bar on their right, Nico is leaning on his arms (corded, scattered with tattoos of varying sensibilities) against the lip of the counter with a dishtowel over one shoulder. The initial rush of orders has died down now that most of the show comers have settled in—a full house’s worth tonight—which means he’s being allowed a temporary reprieve.

Simon raises a hand to him. Classic Nico, all he gives Simon is a tilt of the chin in response. It would likely read as “don’t fuck up” to most. But to Simon, it’s full of a rough, sturdy support—a “fucking kill it,” if you will. And it puts a familiar, steadying strength in Simon’s spine.

Then they’re past Nico and the bar, weaving through the empty spaces between circular tables, left open for dancing. Scattered whoops and hollers rise from the crowd in their wake. In his peripheral vision, Simon sees Shep waving in the general directions of the noise, and Agatha shooting her winning smile by his side. Simon doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t _have_ to do anything—he’s already known as the least PR-oriented person in the group, and anyway, this is what post-show mingling is for—but also, he probably couldn’t do anything like that even if he tried. Not right now.

His focus is in front of him. It’s the stage, and the few hops up the sturdy metal staircase installed against one side of it, the careful manoeuvring around the equipment in his way—mic stand, Shep’s bass, endless snaking trap of wires—and then finally, his kit.

Well, he thinks of it as his, though it isn’t, really. It’s any performer’s shared property as long they play here. But Simon’s spent years and years behind it, and the better part of _last_ year playing it as one third of Great Snakes. He knows these drums. They know him. It’s muscle memory for his hand to swipe the sticks up from the seat, and sitting behind the array of drums feels like coming back home. Like settling into his own skin.

This; this is where he’s the most heard. The most felt. The most real.

He retrieves his earplugs from his pocket and pushes them into his ears. Past the hi-hat to his left, Agatha loops her guitar strap over her head—over her lovely, milky blonde hair—and onto her shoulders. Beyond the cymbals on his right, Shep has already done the same with his bass, and is now positioning himself behind the mic.

The venue is quieting. Conversations peter out a few at a time, and the faces of the two hundred or so audience members turn toward the stage. Kasabian grows fainter over the speakers as Nico drags the volume down behind the bar.

Then all that’s left is Simon’s heartbeat in his ears.

Steady. Strong. Rapid, but consistent.

It’s a feeling as well as a sound. It’s in his chest as well as his ears. He closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into it—the drumming against his ribcage and the _thud-thud_ of it in his ears.

_Thud-thud._

He rolls his shoulders out, then his wrists, and rests them lightly against his thighs. His sticks are poised over the floor tom and snare.

_Thud-thud._

Shepard clears his throat a little ways away from the mic, then reaches up to adjust it on its stand—it makes a muffled noise that thumps off the walls.

_Thud-thud._

Agatha’s fingers slide down the strings of her guitar, and they emit a very thin metallic whine in response. She releases a slow, controlled breath.

_Thud-thud._

_Thud-thud._

_Thud-thud._

Then Shep starts singing.

_“I take a stand,  
The lights come down…”_

And there it is—the faint hints of Nebraska growing thicker with a tune. People have asked this of Simon and Agatha before: why an American lead singer for a British band? And Simon’s answer never wavers: _Because he’s bloody good at it._

Shep’s tone is steadier than any other Simon’s heard before. Strong, but easily yielding on higher or mellower notes. It draws you in.

_“The people silent,  
Lost in the sound._

_“A lonely three…”_ —the bass line comes to life under Shep’s fingers—  
“ _A shared desire._  
_Another step now,_  
_God take me higher.”_

Then Agatha is in, with a light strum over the strings of her guitar—the sound produced is faintly scratched and distorted. There are no frills to the way she plays; just pure, clean sounds produced by well-practiced hands.

Shep is slowing down:

“ _Hazy dreams upon the horizon…”_

His knuckles rap against the strings of his bass—muted and rhythmic.

“ _So far removed from what I knew…”_

Simon clenches and unclenches his fingers around his sticks.

_“And now I see them coming into view…”_

Then the guitar whines, revs up, and builds to a nearly unbearable scream—

—before Simon brings the drumsticks down.

And his heartbeat gets lost in a world of sound.

—

The first time Nico sat Simon down behind a drum kit, Simon was eleven.

He had a buzz cut then, leftover from care—it was in the slow process of growing out into unruly curls—and skinny arms with shoulders permanently pushed up to his ears, and flinty eyes that never stayed still on anybody unless it was the woman who had taken him in. Not even her brother. Even then, as he stood beside the drum kit in the empty events venue, staring at the side of Simon’s head with crossed arms and a raised, expectant eyebrow.

“Try it,” he said. As it was on any day, Nico’s voice was light, with vicious potential under the surface.

But Simon was only three months out of the care system then. He knew what real emptiness of feeling sounded like—the sort that ate up all the space in someone’s voice because there was nothing else to fill it. Nicodemus Petty did not sound like that. He was blunt (very blunt), and sharp, and he couldn’t give two fucks about anyone who didn’t really earn them from him. But he wasn’t cold. It would still take time for Simon to feel it rather than simply know it as fact, but Nico’s heart was just as big as his sister’s—even if he showed it in less conventional ways.

“Go on,” Nico said again, when Simon merely glanced—distrustfully—at the drumsticks lying over the floor tom. “I don’t have all day, kid.”

For a few long moments, Simon sat in the worn-down secondhand drummer’s seat (the venue was still new then—Nico was investing cautiously), silently staring at the floor pedal by his scuffed shoes. Then finally he asked, “Why?”, even though he knew the answer.

“Because your ma wants you to find something you like doing.”

_Because Ebb wants you to stop causing trouble at school._

Simon had heard them—Nico and Ebb—in the kitchen earlier that evening. He’d been sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, still trying to get used to the power of changing TV channels whenever he wanted… when he’d heard the conversation in the kitchen abruptly drop in volume. And having grown up relying on knowing things to survive, Simon knew what that meant. Trouble. Most likely trouble involving him.

He’d been listening at the doorway within a few seconds.

 _Headmaster David,_ Ebb had been saying, in hushed and gentle tones, _said the last time we heard Simon got into a fight wasn’t really the last._

 _Been causing more trouble?_ Nico had asked.

 _Not_ causing _,_ Ebb had said, sounding defensive of Simon in a way that landed strangely—unfamiliarly—in his chest. _He doesn’t start it… He’s a good kid, Nico. Just been through more than the others, hasn’t he? They don’t know what old bad things they stir up when they bother him. Can’t blame him for striking back the only way he knows how._

The solution, apparently, was to get Simon involved in something he loved. Something he could immerse himself in, to shut out the everyday needling of some of the other kids. But there wasn’t anything that he had had the chance to even like yet—let alone love. It had been three months. He wasn’t very good at schoolwork. And he wasn’t invested in any extracurricular activities. Nico had been throwing ideas at Ebb as they’d come to his head, but Ebb had still been simmering over Headmaster David’s words. _Says he thinks better with his hands than his head,_ she’d been saying fiercely, distractedly, as she’d gone about the business of making dinner for the three of them. _C’n you believe that, Nic? The nerve of that man._

Nico had said nothing.

And then he said, _Let me have a go at him._

Simon had managed to dash back to his place on the floor before Nico found him. Then Nico had taken him out—to his new venue. There, he’d drawn Simon to the stage—which wasn’t much more than a clearing in front of the tables and chairs, with tape on the floor to mark the performer’s space—and sat Simon down behind the kit.

Simon did eventually pick those drumsticks up.

And it was uncomfortable, at first. Very. Especially with Nico breathing down his neck and watching his every move. The sticks were foreign weights in his hands. His limbs wouldn’t sync up with each other or his brain—and every time he tried to recite the pattern Nico taught him in his head, it made matters worse. At some point, Nico stopped him with a firm grip on the snare.

“Some folks says you think better with your hands than your head,” he said, cocking his head at Simon. Staring him down. “Prove it.”

Simon set his jaw. He returned Nico’s gaze, defiantly.

And then he did prove it.

He did, and he did. And Nico made no comment when Simon was done, but he took him back to the venue the next day without Simon even asking. Simon supposes he didn’t _have_ to ask. The wild hunger in his eyes and hands probably said it all for him.

By the time he was a year into the drums, Nico was barely interfering anymore. He’d send Simon songs—“Listen to this guy’s style—see what you get from it”—but otherwise just let him spend more time at the venue after closing hours to let loose and explore. Simon stopped getting into fights with kids. He did get into fights with _teachers_ , for ‘class interference’ (apparently drumming on tabletops is a distraction to other students), but those were things he could adapt to. (Trouser material—a lot less noise for the same amount of practice.)

It was freedom. Finally—a place Simon could channel the twisted, complicated anger and frustration he’d been grappling with from his time in care. It was therapeutic, almost. And when the last dregs of that flushed out of his system… well, there was only room to grow.

“You know,” Nico said one day, wiping down a line of glasses he’d laid out along the bar. Simon was sipping Pepsi opposite him, covered in sweat from the one-hour session he’d just done at the drumset. “If you really want this… you could make it. I can see you making it.”

“Making it where?” Simon asked.

“Anywhere you want to go,” his uncle said.

And he was right, wasn’t he?

Four years later, Simon is somewhere very much closer to a dream than reality. Onstage at the same venue—and at so many others on other days—with a sea of people spread out before him. The crowd spills over into the doorways and pushes flush up against the walls. Some people have even stood on chairs to make room, and for a better view. (Simon won’t envy them having to face Nico’s cool wrath later.)

And the stunning thing—the thing he still has to tell himself to believe—is that there are more. Than this. More people, in London, Liverpool, Manchester. People in America, Asia, in countries with names he can’t pronounce or hasn’t even heard of… who listen to his band. His band, whose name is echoing off the walls as it’s chanted by the crowd.

_Great Snakes! Great Snakes! Great Snakes!_

“The _greatest_ snakes!” Dev yells from the back. A smattering of laughs erupt around the room before the new variation catches on across the crowd.

Then Shep is leaning over Simon’s drums to ask, “Are there _any_ other snakes? Should we feel slighted?”

Simon shoves him back by the shoulder. A bubbling laugh leaves Shep’s lips, and then he’s trotting back toward the mic, waving at Simon and Agatha on the way. They take the cue. Agatha pulls her guitar off her shoulders, and Simon stands from his seat with a thin film of sweat over his entire body. Especially his arms. The ink across his right—from shoulder to wrist—gleams under the house lights. (A half-lidded dragon eye observes him with lazy, powerful cunning.)

“Thank you!” Shep is saying, half-drowned out by the crowd even with a mic at his lips. “Thank you so much.” Simon comes up on his right, Agatha on his left, and Shep shoots them both fierce grins before grabbing their hands in each of his own and swinging them up into the air. On the downswing, they bow. And the crowd roars.

“We’ve been Great Snakes,” Shep says once he’s risen to the mic again, “and y’all have been _amazing_. Thank you for coming, and good night!”

The lights flash and then dim into nothing over the stage. Then all that’s left are the lingering yells of the crowd, eventually subsiding back into excited murmurings.

Under the relative privacy of darkness, Shep turns his back on the audience, and Simon sees his eyes sparkling in the low light.

“Shit,” he says, and he’s panting a little. “That was good.”

Simon’s grin is fierce as he nods. “It was good,” he echoes.

And Agatha says nothing—but she _is_ smiling, at the corners of her lips, and looking at Simon and Shep with something like pride in her eyes. Before, Simon would have moved in and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Pulled her in for a kiss on her hair. Murmured something gentle against her forehead.

As it is, he settles for a “good job” a few safe steps away from her, and she nods in response.

The crowd absorbs them eagerly when they step offstage. Several people are Simon and Agatha’s uni mates… but the others are all new. A sea of unfamiliar faces written in the same lines of excitement and discovery. There was a time when Simon could pick everyone out of the crowd by name—and now to see each new person is to experience the same surprised thrill over and over. It never gets old.

The feedback tonight is overwhelmingly positive. _Brilliant—fresh—spectacular. My friend was raving about you; I heard you on Spotify and had to come down and see you live; when’s your next show? I’ll definitely be there._ Shep handles most of the conversations with his natural, friendly ease—but he’s good about cordially closing them when they drag on. They make it into the back area in good time, where Nico is a blur behind the bar as patrons flock back toward it. He still manages to catch Simon’s eye on their way by; Simon proudly returns the small, sharp grin he’s sent.

Then a very (very) loud voice goes, _“There they are!!!”_

Dev. (Obviously.) The little table in the back corner is significantly more stocked with alcohol than it was before. Dev whoops and hollers with one hand cupped around his mouth and the other fist-pumping the air. Penny claps with raised hands. Niall is grinning, and as Simon watches, he lifts the DSLR hanging around his neck up to his eyes. The flash is on, and it makes Simon wince. But he’s laughing. Behind him, so are Shep and Agatha.

And even bracing himself, Simon cringes at the impact of Dev’s arm slapping across his shoulders.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Dev says feelingly. (And maybe a little drunkenly? Simon can’t tell with him.) “I mean, come on—do you even _know_ how _wicked_ you lot are?”

Shep bypasses the roadblock that is Simon and Dev, and claps hands with Niall, who grins. “That set,” he says, “was fucking brilliant, mate. Bloody spectacular. And you—”

This he directs at Agatha. Simon sees the surprise on her face.

“What the hell happened to you today, Welby?”

“What?” Agatha says.

Niall raises his eyebrows and slants his eyes toward Penny, and Dev yells, “Go on, Bunce, tell her!” (Right into Simon’s ear.)

Behind her witchy glasses, Penny rolls her eyes. Then she sighs heavily. Exaggeratedly. (Penny’s _real_ heavy sigh doesn’t have accompanying moving shoulders.) “Oh, if I _have_ to say it…” she says wearily, with a smile ruining her pout at the corners. “You were impressive today, Agatha.” And then she sweeps her gaze over all three Snakes’ stunned expressions and adds, “All of you were. Really. This might have been your best show yet.”

Shep’s mouth is open. He looks at Simon.

“Did you _hear_ that?”

“Yeah,” Simon says.

“Shut up,” Penny says.

“We’re ready for the Grammys now, right?” Shep says. “We’re shoe-ins.”

Dev: “Bit far out of the country to start with, mate.”

An airy hand is waved about. “The BRITs, then.”

“How about we _start_ with the Next Blood show,” Penny says, making room for the three of them at the table, “and then we’ll work our way from there, hmm?”

“Have apps for that opened already?” Shep asks. He’s taken the spot next to Penny, and is now helping Niall sort out everyone’s drinks from the tray.

“They will on Monday,” Penny says, watching his hands.

“Well, we’ll apply then, yeah?” Simon says. “First thing Monday.”

“Of course.”

“That—” Agatha says, and then seems to falter. Simon and Penny turn to her—and she opens her mouth, closes it. “That’s a thing we’re really doing, then?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “I mean, it’s the best chance we’ve got, right?”

“To play with the big boys,” Niall pipes up, sliding a glass Simon’s way. “Chance of a lifetime, innit?”

Simon raises his glass to Niall. Because he’s right—it is. It’s the chance of a _few_ lifetimes.

Of every music festival that bursts onto the scene during the London summers, Festival 61 is one of—if not _the_ —biggest. And it’s rock-centric. Punk, indie, glam and grunge, anything under the umbrella term has its place on the stages there. Simon first watched a live stream of it when he was sixteen, and he knew right then that he wanted to perform there one day. Someday. Even though he hadn’t the vaguest idea how he could form his own band, _and_ despite the fact it was notoriously impossible to get into the festival. What could one expect, anyway? It’s hosted some of the biggest names in rock history—Def Leppard, KISS, Guns N’ Roses… the list made sixteen-year-old Simon starry-eyed and dizzy. (It still does.) So. The chances of an unprofessionally-trained kid from Watford making it there were extremely slim. Nearly nonexistent.

But there’s been a change, this year. An addition. NowNext Radio, the station that hosts one of 61’s medium-sized stages, announced a contest. One for finding fresh talent—or “Next Blood”, as the contest is called. “Apply with your band’s best music for a chance to win the spot on NowNext’s stage.” Not just _one of_ the spots. _The_ spot. The only.

It makes sense. For a festival hosting bands everyone on the planet has heard of, stage time can’t be given away lightly. Great Snakes has to apply as soon as the virtual doors open, submit samples that are nothing short of outstanding. Because it won’t be an easy fight—but one that any serious musician would try their hand at for the chance to _literally_ play among the stars.

“A chance of a lifetime indeed,” Shep is saying. And he must have caught the dreamy look in Simon’s eyes, because he’s grinning at him knowingly. Simon laughs, sheepish, and Shep punches him in the arm. (Because he gets it.)

The boys are nearly done distributing the drinks. “Want one, Ags?” Dev asks, and she blinks her eyes away from the wall.

“I’m sorry?”

“Want one? We got an extra just in case.”

But Agatha never drinks, and Simon’s about to say so—also because he’s starting to think something’s up with her tonight, brilliant show notwithstanding—but then she… agrees. Dev makes a delighted sound and turns away, and Simon tilts his head at her.

“What’s up?” he asks her, making sure to keep his voice low.

“What do you mean, Simon?”

“I mean, it’s just—you never drink.”

“Well,” she says, and gives him a smile that would flip anyone’s stomach over, “it was a good show, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” Simon echoes, still vaguely confused, as Dev places her drink in front of her and she turns the smile on him instead. “It _was_ a good show.”

And when she turns back to look at him, he finally smiles too.

“Alright!” Shep yells. “Toast!”

The table dissolves into a bit of a ruckus. Simon hears a _Yes_ and a _fuck, which one’s mine_ and a _no, that’s mine, idiot_. But Dev eventually emerges as toastmaster from the hubbub. He clears his throat—exactly three times—before raising his glass in the air. Everyone else follows suit.

“To Great Snakes,” he says, “the greatest rock band in England.” Laughs and cheers go around the table before he continues: “To their _resounding_ success in the Next Blood contest.” Enthusiastic whooping, this time. _“And,”_ Dev says importantly, “to many, many afterparties, wherein we shall all get sloshed as awfully as we did before anyone knew your bloody names.”

This is met with a few cackles and shoves aimed in Dev’s direction. He protests loudly, doing an impressive balancing act to keep his drink in its glass, and Simon grins. Then he clears his own throat once.

“And—” he says. “If I could—?”

“Please,” Dev says, inclining his head and sweeping his hand out over the table.

Simon takes a breath, then tips his glass toward the table at large. “To knowing you all,” he says, extending the toast to Nico at the bar as well—the others echo the movement. “And being here with you,” Simon says, back to the table. “And being able to _do this_ with you.” This he aims at Shep and Agatha especially. Shep’s smile lights up the room; Agatha’s adds a little glow.

Simon’s heart is full, here at a table with his friends after an amazing show, and he smiles with all the force of it. Then he realises everyone is still staring at him.

“And—well, yeah, that’s it.”

The others laugh. Then Niall lowers his head and raises his glass higher.

“Cheers to that,” he says.

They do. And then they drink.

—

Simon keeps a careful, firm hand on the door handle when he comes in, so he can ease the door back into place as slowly as possible. But there’s far too much alcohol in him, and his spatial recognition is worth shit. The door _thumps_ loudly into place far sooner than he anticipated, and the sound echoes through every wall in the flat. Simon cringes, freezes, and waits for signs of movement from Ebb’s room.

When none is forthcoming, he lets out a small sigh of relief.

His shoes and socks he discards by the door. Then he makes his unsteady way to the kitchen fridge, sliding in the packet of food Nico gave him earlier to take back to Ebb. He doesn’t bother turning on the overhead light. The internal light of the fridge has already set off a dull throbbing behind his eyes.

He can at least console himself that he isn’t as off his face as Dev and Niall were. He and Shep had to practically drag them to their Uber. Agatha, as the most sober of the six of them, assumed the responsibility of holding the car door open.

“You brought a key with you, right?” Simon grunted, shouldering Niall off his body and using the momentum to swing him down into the backseat. Niall fell like a deadweight, but his eyes were still bright.

“Key,” he repeated back to Simon, apparently nonplussed.

“To your flat,” Simon said.

“Oh. Nope,” Niall said cheerily. Simon groaned, but Penny, somewhere behind him, laughed instead. Totally at their expense.

“I won’t envy you two when you go banging on the door later and wake Basilton up,” she said merrily.

“Baz’ll kill you,” Simon agreed under his breath, while pushing Niall’s long and unwieldy legs into the foot space in front of the seat. Niall’s foot bashed into one of the metal bits under the passenger seat, and he moaned in pain.

“Oh, he’s killed us before,” Dev sang. Shep was bringing him round to the other side. “But we lived.”

“Right,” Simon said dubiously. Then he shut the door for them a moment later.

He’s plodding his way to his room now, and he’s still thinking of how unconvinced he is. Knowing the boys’ prickly roommate—and Simon _does_ know him, maybe too well, has done since they were both 11—there’s almost nothing that Baz loves more than his uninterrupted beauty sleep. You’d never be able to tell he hadn’t slept by just looking at him (Baz always looks like he’s just come off the set of a movie, or like he’s only anywhere he is because he mixed up the address for the red carpet)—but you might make a guess once he started biting your head off for glancing in his general direction.

Then again, that’s probably an unhelpful benchmark where Simon is concerned. Baz was _usually_ biting his head off, full night’s sleep or no…

It’s just been one of those relationships between them. The kind that was sour before either of them knew what it would mean.

Simon got to school late on his first day of Year 6. And when he finally made it to class, the only empty seat left was the one next to the absurdly pretty brunette near the front. It wouldn’t take him long to realise why. (Why it was the only seat left—not why he was absurdly pretty.) (Simon still doesn’t know that.)

Baz was just a colossal prick. Simon didn’t know anything about anyone in that class then, but it was easy to suss Baz out eventually. He was so loud about himself. Not in that he _talked_ that much—especially not to Simon, unless it was to insult him—but just… in the way he existed. His cocky, self-assured posture was because of his old blood; the thick, slightly sweet-smelling stuff that he put in his hair screamed money. (It _had_ to be expensive. No one had hair that perfect without paying a small fortune for it. Right?)

Nothing anyone did ever seemed good enough for him. Maybe sometimes with the exception of Dev and Niall, but even they suffered some degree of attitude. (It took Simon a bit to realise that they were actually Baz’s friends.) Every effort Simon made with him was brushed off _at best_. At worst… well, Baz has an exceptional mouth for insulting people.

It’s no wonder he was the first person Simon got into a scrap with at Watford. And most of the other times too… until Nico gave Simon the drums, that is.

Simon reaches his door and leans heavily into it as it swings open. It’s not the first time he’s thought it, but Baz’s hostility toward him might have even got worse after Simon started playing. He isn’t sure why that might have been. Maybe Baz _liked_ fighting with Simon, and it pissed him off when Simon started losing his inclination for it.

But if Simon’s being a bit more practical about it, it’s likely not that. Baz probably just thought rock was second-rate. Inferior. He’s been playing classical violin from the age of _seven_ , for Christ’s sake. He plays for Watford Uni’s orchestra now—first chair. The tosser.

At the very least, they’ve grown up. Which means they know how to be in the same room without tearing each other to shreds anymore. It’s definitely been a useful skill in more recent years, as their friend groups started overlapping. (Dev and Niall started making decisions about their own friends at the start of uni. And if Baz is still annoyed by that, Simon honestly doesn’t have the energy to care.)

Anyway. Baz. Whatever. Penny was right. Simon doesn’t envy the position the boys will be in once they get back to their flat.

Or the position they have _already_ found themselves in, if his phone going mad with notifications earlier had anything to do with it.

He doesn’t even bother with the idea of a shower before falling onto his bed—his muscles are done with work for the day. It can wait until morning.

When he opens up his phone, there are a hundred messages from the group chat he shares with the five others. Jesus.

It _was_ , in fact, mostly Dev and Niall. A few minutes ago lamenting about the fate they’d doomed themselves to as they drew nearer to their flat. Penny popped in once or twice with a self-satisfied emoji. Shep sent prayer hands. Agatha didn’t send anything.

It seems that Baz opened the door after Niall sent a final “fuck”, because there was a long pause after that message before the next one came in. Which was simply “fuck fuck”. Simon snorts.

 **Simon:** u all alive?

 **Dev:** have 2 see - baz still going

 **Shep:** RIP

 **Simon:** take vids

 **Dev:** fuk off

But a file actually does come through a moment later. A bit disappointingly, it’s a picture rather than a video. And it’s not from Dev—it’s from Niall. But Simon can see why.

Baz is focused on Dev, and he is _not_ happy. He’s in this fancy-looking pyjama set thing, and his hair is falling loose around his face and neck. It’s so unlike the usual styling Simon sees it in… the kind that sort of makes Baz look like a vampire, slicked back a little in a way that emphasises his widow’s peak. It’s usually straighter than this too; Simon doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many waves in Baz’s hair.

But he finds he likes this version better. Even though it frames the nastiest pout he’s ever seen, and obviously really tired eyes. Baz looks softer than he ever does at uni. Closer to reality. Like something normal people could actually touch.

Simon blinks slowly. Christ, he’s tired out of his mind.

When his phone buzzes and no new messages appear on the screen, Simon almost thinks his sleep-addled brain made it up. But when he exits the chat, there’s a new message from Agatha in the one they share with Shep (creatively named ‘🐍🐍🐍’).

 **Agatha:** Hey. Are you guys free to talk tomorrow?

Simon squints at the screen, then slowly thumbs out a reply.

 **Simon:** out most of the day tmrw why?

 **Shep:** u okay, welby?

There’s a brief pause.

 **Agatha:** I’m fine.

Simon’s brow furrows gently.

 **Simon:** sure? i can cancel if important.

 **Agatha:** No, no, Simon. You carry on. I’ll just speak to you on Monday, alright?

Monday. That’s… fuck, he’s so tired. And drunk. But Monday is a day away, which means whatever it is can’t be too bad, surely. If it’s not urgent.

Shep responds before he can.

 **Shep:** alright

 **Shep:** sure u’re okay, ags?

And by the time Agatha replies—by the time she says that she is—Simon has to take her word for it, because he’s out like a light.

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter: baz
> 
> thanks to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for coming up with the name for festival 61! and my sister for helping me write the lyrics in this chapter ❤️
> 
> find [me](https://twokisses.tumblr.com/) and [half_witch](https://carryonebeneza.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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